


3:06am

by kyungsjeong



Series: 3:37am [1]
Category: History (Band), K-pop
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 08:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14233593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyungsjeong/pseuds/kyungsjeong
Summary: "It's dangerous out there," he tells you.Not as dangerous as it is in here,you think.(could be considered a prequel to 3:37am or as a standalone)(already posted on AFF, trying to get everything on the same platform)





	1. 3:06am

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: PG/PG13
> 
> Fandom: History
> 
> Pairing: Kyungjeong
> 
> Warnings: second person, my writing style, run-on sentences, abuse of commas, creative liberties (mostly with things related to dorm living)

(Kyungil POV)

 _When did it get this bad?_  you wonder in silence. You're supposed to be the strong one, but you've never felt so weak. You should have put a stop to this months ago, years ago, you should have been strong enough to get away, but you're not. Not when it comes to him at least. Maybe you just need to try harder. Maybe your best just isn't good enough yet. (Maybe it'll never be enough.)

You tried to push him away. It didn't take much. He trusts you, he looks to you to know how to act, he knows you're not sure about this, about him yet. If you look away from his gaze, he'll look away too. If you brush his hand off your thigh, if you shrug his hand from your waist, if you back away when he moves closer, he'll stop. It's not like he'll fight back, like he'll call you out. He's the weak one, right? (Wrong.)

It worked for a while, subtly stopping things before they began. It worked in public, when you were surrounded by eyes that don't miss a second, when you were being watched every step of the way. It even worked in private sometimes, when you were well-rested and not feeling homesick. When you got up before he did to spend hours in the hotel gym, when you didn't talk, when you weren't looking at him. (When you stopped it before it began.)

Eventually, it stopped working. It doesn't work when you're exhausted, when you're lonely and anxious and not quite sober. When he looks at you and smiles, just as tired, just as lonely and anxious. When the lights are down and you feel reckless. It doesn't work because you're not in control. (It doesn't work because you don't want it to anymore.)

You know that if you wait for him to do something about it, it'll never happen. Not when you're still trying to push him away. He won't risk it, he won't put himself in that position, not now, not when you keep ignoring him. You think you might have managed to convince him that you don't want him to. You think he's an idiot, you think he's gullible and naive and hopelessly foolish. (You think he trusts you too much.)

No matter how tired or lonely he is, he will never make the first move, not when you're alone, not when it's offstage, not when it's real. That should be enough, that should make it easy for you to be the strong one, all you have to do is nothing. Doing nothing is simple, but it feels so complicated right now. You're a man of action, doing nothing is hard for you sometimes. (Especially when it involves something that matters to you.)

You try to fall asleep, but your mind is racing and fuzzy around the edges and you can't exactly remember why you thought pushing him away was the right thing to do. It's risky, it's dangerous, you're feeling weak again, so you throw yourself out of bed and grab a jacket. You can't see very well in the dark, so you stumble around looking for your phone and your wallet and your shoes. 

"What are you doing?" his voice breaks through the darkness. "Going for a walk," you grumble back. "Sounds nice," he replies, getting out of bed and looking for his own shoes. You sigh. "Alone. I'm going for a walk alone."

"It's dangerous out there," he tells you. Not as dangerous as it is in here, you think. "I'll survive," you mutter. "Yeah, but what about me?" You're not sure when he made it all the way to the door, but now he's standing next to you, and you're sure he's looking up at you through his lashes on purpose and it's working. "Fine," you relent, "but no talking. And walk in front of me so I can make sure you don't get snatched." He agrees eagerly, zipping his lips and throwing away the imaginary key. 

The December air feels brisk and refreshing on your face and you start to remember why you shouldn't be out here alone with him, why you should let him roam free through the city streets, because even if it's a terrible risk, it's not even close to the one you're taking by letting him stay. 

He walks ahead of you, obediently, not saying a single word. You never doubted that he would and sometimes it terrifies you, the control you seem to have over him. But at least he keeps his promises, you're the one who keeps breaking them. (Maybe it's time to stop making them.)

You haven't walked this slowly in a while, taking one step for every two of his. You haven't covered much distance, but you're starting to get hungry anyway. "Hey!" you call to him, pointing at a restaurant. He turns around, his nose red from the chill in the air, and smiles. 

You get a booth in the back and he hesitates before sitting across from you. You ignore it. You order enough food for four and you know you'll regret it later, but your choices are too many calories and giving in to him, so it's an easy choice. (None of this is easy.)

"I was thinking about the setlist for tomorrow and..." he begins, but you interrupt. "I said no talking," you remind him. "We're not walking anymore, so it doesn't count." You glare at him, but you know he has a point and it's only work, right? Talking about work couldn't hurt, you tell yourself. One more drink won't hurt, you lie to yourself. 

An hour passes before you haul yourself up from the table and out into the street, your arm around his shoulders. You start down the sidewalk and it takes longer than you'd like to admit to realize what a bad idea all of this was. Your arm drops from his shoulder, you rip yourself away from him, look away from the hurt in his eyes, take a deep breath. "I know I only said no talking, but the no touching was implied," you snap. He blinks and you're not sure he's surprised. He walks ahead of you, only a little faster this time. You feel like yelling at him, at yourself, at whatever entity put you here, with him but not with him. You feel like collapsing and kicking your feet and giving up, but you can't. You're too far gone, and you're not sure why it took you this long to realize it. (Maybe you realized but you just couldn't accept it.)

It only takes fifteen minutes to walk back to your hotel, to take the elevator up, to unlock the door and kick off your shoes and collapse on the nearest bed. Which, unfortunately, doesn't end up being yours. You close your eyes when you feel the mattress sink under his weight. You know he's trying to think of something to say, you hope he'll tell you to get the hell off his bed, but he doesn't say a word. "The no talking rule is over," you mumble into his pillows. "And?" he asks. You don't have an answer, so you stay silent. (He wouldn't want to hear it anyway.)

You think you're safe until you feel his fingers teasing your hair, his palm resting on your neck. You suddenly remember that you weren't the only one drinking in that restaurant, that he's the strong one right now, and you are unbelievably weak. You should tell him to stop, but you don't. You should get up, but you don't. You should do something, anything, but the only things you can think to do are the wrong ones. (But right now, they don't even seem that wrong.)

He runs his hand up and down your back, barely there at first, but soon more purposefully and intensely and you get even weaker. "Why are you pushing me away?" he whispers, liquid courage still pulsing through his veins. "I'm not," you say confidently. "Liar," he counters. "Fine. You know why."

"You're mad at me," he concludes. "Sure. Whatever," you mutter. "Then why are you still here?" You sigh, keeping silent, but his words echo in your mind. _Why are you still here? Why haven't you put a stop to this? Why don't you end this, once and for all?_ You could answer the questions, but that would make it real and this can't be real, right? It can't be. You move quickly, startling him and twisting yourself around to look at him. (Mistake.)

His eyes are damp and his face is flushed and he's right there and you can't take it, you can't be strong, you can't push him away, not this time. You lean in. (Mistake.) You kiss him. (Mistake.) He kisses you. (Mistake.) You give in because you're weak. He gives in because it's you. (Mistake.)

Dawn is unforgiving and the sun rises whether you like it or not and you want to admire the sunbeams on his cheeks and you want to feel his skin with your lips, but you can't because this has already gone too far and so you leave. You spend an hour on the treadmill, trying to forget, trying to pretend you made a drunken mistake, trying to pretend that he's not gonna be hurt when he wakes up alone. You run and run and run, but it never gets any easier to forget. You have answers to questions you've had for months, questions you should have never wanted answers to in the first place, and more questions you'll never be able to answer. (Yet you still want to try.)

When you get back to your room, he's already dressed and his makeup is done and he's waiting for you on your bed this time. "Shower," you state before locking yourself in the bathroom. Safe at last, but not for long because your schedule starts in an hour and you're not even close to ready. You use up as much time as possible in the shower, shaving and getting dressed, but not enough time because he's still waiting when you're done. (He's waited longer than that for you before and you know it.)

"The no talking rule is over, remember?" he says upon sight of you. "Go right ahead," you say, plugging in your phone charger and sitting down at the desk. "Three things," he begins, and you know he's been planning for this since he woke up. "One, as long as you wanted that as much I did, we don't have to discuss it." You feel a little burst of relief, buried underneath the indifference you're trying to feign. You nod and he continues. "Two, I can forget if I have to." You swallow hard, anticipating the third statement. "And three, this is real if you want it to be."

He stands from the bed just before there's a knock at the door, undoubtedly the stylist, right on time. He looks at you for a moment before answering the door and replacing his presence with a slightly flustered stylist who says she'll have to rush a bit. You close your eyes and let her get to work on your tired features. She tries to make small talk, but soon realizes that you're not in the mood and decides to work in silence. You start to wonder if she knows, she can't know, it's not possible. (It is definitely possible.)

You don't see him until you're in the van on the way to soundcheck and you don't really look at him until he falls asleep backstage on the couch and everyone else leaves to get something to eat before the show. You should have gone with them, but you still feel guilty and maybe you can make up for it by being there when he wakes up this time. Maybe not, you think as he starts to stir awake. He sits up and looks around, groggily surveying the room until he turns to you. "I..." you whisper, but you don't know what to say. "It can't be real," you try, but it feels final and wrong, so you add, "but it is."

"It is," he repeats, looking up at you and you realize you should have kept your distance because his hair is smushed and his eyes are sleepy and his makeup is smeared and it's too much, it's all too much. This should be solved, it shouldn't feel like this anymore, give in and the urgency fades. You don't know what it feels like now, but it's not over or final or nothing or better. (Maybe it's worse.)

"Yeah," you say absentmindedly as he lays back down, his head resting on your thigh. You try to fix the flattened patch of hair on his head, running your hands over his scalp in vain. "What do you want?" you ask tentatively, not sure what answer you're looking for. "This," he says with a yawn. You nod. "What about you? What do you want?" You shrug, but he's not willing to take that for an answer. Not anymore. "No shrugging. Spell it out."

"This," you reply, making him roll his eyes and let it go. "Fine, don't tell me." You sigh quietly, hoping that no one thinks your current position is suspicious when they return from dinner, hoping that he knows the meaning behind your words, hoping that the walls don't come crashing down around you, around him, because that would be your fault and you could have stopped it and you're supposed to be the strong one. Hope is stronger than you'll ever be, so you put all of your energy into it for now. 

Maybe it's not right, maybe it's a mistake, maybe you'll regret it later, but right now, with your hand in his hair and his head on your leg, it's hard to imagine any of those things. This is real if you want it to be, he told you but that's a lie. You know the truth, that it's real no matter what you want, that it's real and it's not going away easily, that it might not go away at all. And you should care and you should stop it and you should be strong, but you're weak and you're careless and you'll probably ruin this, ruin him, but you'll just have to settle for hoping you don't. (But when has hope ever been enough?)

You get back to the hotel and he's not saying it but his eyes are full of expectation and exhaustion and something dangerously close to love and you only recognize it because you've seen it in your eyes too. He sits down next to you on your bed, close but not close enough. "No talking rule?" he suggests. You look over at him and you're falling, you're falling fast and you know you'll hit the ground at some point but you can't make yourself care about that right now. "No talking," you agree, and apparently that's all he needs because he's in your arms and his hands are in your hair and his lips are an inch from yours and you take a moment to wonder when he got this bold before you give in again and again. (You're getting pretty good at that.)

You should be sleeping, it's 3 in the morning after all, but you don't want to miss a second of this. You already feel cheated after sneaking out this morning, not nearly as cheated as he must feel, but this time you're gonna appreciate it. This time you hold his hands and you kiss him more, too much, and you take your time. This time you don't waste a second, because this is important and it's fragile and it's scary and exciting and real and you're not gonna take it for granted. He doesn't deserve that. (Maybe you do, but he doesn't.)

He deserves your full attention, and even though you might not be able to put a label on this, even though you can't tell him what this means or explain all the intricacies of your plan to make this work because you don't exactly have one yet, you're willing to do whatever you can to show him that this is as important to you as it is to him. You're strong enough to do that. (You're weak enough for that.)

Whatever the reason, whatever the motivation, it's worth it in this moment, at 3:06am, as he rests his head on your chest and his heart in your hands, your heart in his. It's worth it when he sighs and unconsciously snuggles closer to you. It's worth the consequences, anything that comes your way. For moments like these, you'd risk everything. You're strong enough for that, you'll help him be strong enough too. (He probably doesn't need your help anyway.)

You know it won't be easy, and some of it will hurt, and you'll say the wrong things or do the wrong things, but so will he. He'll hurt you, he'll say the wrong thing, he'll do the wrong thing. But you won't give up. You'll give in, but you won't give up on him, not for a second. Because even though it took you years to realize it, you're weak and he's strong and you need him as much as he needs you and you probably want him more than he wants you, but none of that matters because he's here and he's happy and that's enough. Maybe he wants more than that, but you just want him to be safe and maybe it's not true, but you really believe he's safe here with you. Weak as you are, you can be strong if you need to be, if you need to save him. (But who will save him from you?)

At some point, you finally fall asleep and when you wake up, he's still there, breathing easily, untroubled by the world outside these four walls. You glance at the clock, 6:29am, look out the window and an idea forms in your head. You get out of bed, jostling him awake and he looks at you in confusion. "What's wrong?" he croaks, his voice gravelly. "Come here," you coax, reaching for his hands and dragging him out of bed, toward the window. He still looks confused and a little grumpy, and he collapses against your chest, his hands around your waist and this is already so much better than you imagined. "Look, we have the perfect view of the sunrise." He scoffs. "I've seen the sunrise more than I can count. I've seen it with you more than a few times."

"Yeah, but..." you trail off as he interrupts you. "The sun comes up and then it goes back down. What's the big deal?" he says, his words muffled by your shirt.  _I'm trying,_ you think,  _don't you get it?_  "Not like this," you tell him, defeated by his disinterest. "Not here, not with me like this." He looks up at you, rubbing at his eyes. "You really love your cliches." 

"Humor me for a minute. Please?" you request, and he rotates in your arms so he can see out the window. You wrap your arms around his waist, rest your head on his shoulder, watch the sun light up the world together. And he's right, it's not the first time, not even close, but it's different, you know it and you know he feels it too, even if he's still too tired to notice. He sighs, relaxing against you and staring out the window. "What happens when we go home?" he whispers, his voice wavering slightly, you'd miss it if you didn't know him so well. "I don't know," you reply, and you really don't. "We'll come back eventually. We never stay home for long." He nods slowly and you release him from your arms, lead him back to bed by his hand, crawl back under the comforter and turn off the alarm on your phone. 

You have the day off and even though you'd normally spend it exploring more of this beautiful city you're occupying a lot lately, today you're perfectly happy to spend the whole morning right here in your hotel room. Maybe you'll spend the afternoon here too. Maybe you'll send your manager to get takeout for dinner. (Maybe no one will notice you're both missing.)

You've earned this much, pretending to be normal for a day, living in the moment and enjoying every second, cataloging every inch of him, uncovering answers to burning questions that have run through your mind for months, or longer. He's earned more than that, waiting for you, trying not to be hurt by your harsh words, by critiques of everything he is and everything he does. You were just trying to help and you want to tell him that, convince him that you've always cared, but that might be too much for you, you're too weak to be that honest. (You're too strong to be that vulnerable.)

Maybe you should consider what happens when you go home, where the walls are thinner and the quarters are closer and consequences are more likely to barge in and take control, but you don't want to. Maybe you should tell him this is a one-time, no, two-time (three-time?) kind of thing, tell him that it's too risky, save him from himself, save him from you, but you're not strong, you're weak, and you've never been a saint, not even close. Maybe it's a terrible risk, maybe the biggest risk you've ever taken, maybe that's why it's so exciting, so consuming, so hard to stop. 

If you asked him, you know he'd say he's willing to take the risk too, that he knows the consequences and he's willing to face them, but you're not sure either of you are capable of thinking rationally anymore. You suppose he's strong enough to risk it, for what he wants, for you, and you're still not sure why it took you this long to see it, to see his strength, to see your weakness, to see that you were falling, to see that he was waiting to catch you. (To see that you wouldn't hit the ground.)

You'll worry about the consequences later, you'll worry about what this means and getting caught and screwing it up, but not now, not when he's falling asleep in your arms again, and mumbling about disturbing his precious slumber to see the most reliable thing in the universe, and smiling like an idiot because of you, because of what he feels for you, because of what he's making you feel for him. He worries enough for both of you, you know that for sure, so you'll balance the scales by deciding not to worry yet. (At the very least, you'll try.)

When you go back home, then you can worry, then you can obsess over every moment, every wrong move, every wrong word, but not today. Because you've earned this, one day to give in to your weakness, admit that you're not strong, that you don't even want to be where he's concerned, one day to pretend that everything is simple, that you're not taking the biggest chance of your life by giving in. 

(His hair is sticking up all over and his fingers are trailing across your skin and his eyes say more than his words ever could and you think being weak might not be quite as bad as you always thought.)


	2. pt. 2

(Kyungil POV)

...

He's been pulling away from you for a few days now, spending more time outside of your room, busying himself with anything he can find as long as it doesn't involve you. You know why, you're going home soon and he's trying to limit the impact, preparing himself for the inevitable, getting used to being without you, hoping it'll make it easier when things change, when you go back home, but it's not a perfect solution. He still finds his way back, sometimes sneaking back into your room at dawn, and you know he thinks it'd be smarter to sleep in his own bed and you know he's tried, but somehow he always ends up in yours. (Not that you're complaining.)

You know he's waiting for you to say something, but you can't, you wouldn't know where to start and you're afraid of what could come out if you don't plan it first. (You're afraid because you know exactly what you might say.) Whenever you notice him getting like that, you just kiss him instead, at least when you're alone. When he gets like that in public you turn it into a joke and he looks hurt and you resort your other strategy the first second you're alone. It works, it's not hard to distract him, not for you. (Or maybe he's just willing to pretend it's working.)

It's been almost a month since you started this set of shows, it's been two weeks since you followed him out of the hotel, into a restaurant, back to the hotel. It's been three days since he started sliding away from you when you sit down backstage, looking away from you when he laughs or smiles. Three days since he stopped touching you for no reason, texting you when you're apart, kissing you when he wakes up in your arms, but it feels like three years. You sort of understand why he's doing it, and you definitely respect his right to, but all you can think is that the two of you are like a rubber band and pulling away from you just means getting closer to being snapped back together. (Unless the band breaks and you lose him instead.)

He's still waiting for you to say something and honestly, you're waiting for him to say something too. Maybe you can't give him exactly what he wants, but you don't know where he wants to go from here and you don't want to bring it up because this thing, whatever it is, is fragile and it matters and you don't want to break the silence. 

He gets back to your room at 2am and he probably thinks you're sleeping because he's trying to be quiet as he gets ready for bed, you wait for him to get in bed, your bed, but he doesn't, getting into the bed on the opposite side of the room for the first time in weeks. (You suddenly wonder if the housekeeper thinks it's weird that one bed is always made up.)

Maybe he did it on purpose because you can't take it, you explode, the tension of the past few days finally overwhelming you. "Do you want to break up?" You're speaking too loudly and he hadn't even noticed you were still awake and he jolts and you feel bad, but not bad enough. He rolls over to look at you, you cross your arms across your chest. "There's nothing to break," he replies calmly. "Isn't that how you want it to be?"

"No," you say reflexively. "You don't?" he asks, faltering a little. "Not if you just get to end it whenever you feel like it." He sits up, rubs his hand across his face and you realize how tired he looks, how drained, how limp and lifeless. It's been a long month and you thought you were helping but he's dealing with all of this alone because he thinks it's what you want. It should be what you want. Simple, no complicated plans, no talking, but that's not enough for you. Not anymore. (Not with him.) "We're going home soon," he continues. "So?"

"So, this can't keep happening once we go home, it won't work." The childish part of you wants to disagree, to tell him it can work, to tell him you want this no matter what, but you're smarter than that, or you at least know that you're stupid if you think this is sustainable. It's been two weeks, you couldn't even last two weeks. "We're not home yet," you remind him, even though you know what he'll say. "The longer we wait, the harder it'll be. For me, at least."

"It's not," you swallow hard, past a suspicious lump growing in your throat, "it's not easy for me either." He nods. "I'm just trying to make it easier." You know, but you don't have to like it, and it's Christmas and waking up with him on Christmas morning sounds like the greatest thing ever and you know it's not fair, but you want it anyway. "One more night," you whisper, worried he'll turn you down. "You'll say that tomorrow too."

"No, I won't. Just tonight," you promise. "Just tonight?" he confirms. You get out of bed, turn out the light, climb over him to get into his bed, reach for him under the blankets, pull him close to you, pray he doesn't pull away. "Just tonight," you repeat quietly, head buried in his chest, eyes closed. You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, that you're just tired, that his mattress is just more comfortable than yours, that this isn't anything more than a reaction to being lonely and homesick and exhausted. (But this time you know it's a lie.)

Morning rears its ugly head long before you're ready and it's the holidays but you have to work and you have to stop, you have to stop this just like you promised you would, no matter how hard it is. But it's Christmas morning and your room is a little chilly and he's warm and awake and you know he's staring at you, fingers tumbling through your hair, trying to smile but failing. You should have let him keep pushing you away, you should stop making this harder on him, you should tell him what this is, lay it all out so he can stop wondering, but you don't know how. You can't even explain it to yourself, how could he possibly understand? (Maybe you should ask him to explain it.)

He notices you're awake after a minute and his hand stills, he clears his throat, sits up and throws his feet over the edge of the bed. You're cold and you're miserable and you don't know what to do, but you don't want it to end like this, so you reach out to stop him from leaving, grab his wrist. "You promised," he whispers. He's right, you did, you have to keep your promises for once. You let go of him, he leaves, it feels final and dark and cold and wrong and it's all your fault and you deserve to suffer. 

It feels weird on stage and you miss him and you keep looking at him, hoping his eyes still light up when he smiles. He seems more okay than you and you know it could be fake but you're still jealous. Why isn't this affecting him like it's affecting you, why are you the only one that's suffering, doesn't he care, doesn't he miss you, does he care if your smiles are fake?

When you get back to your room that night, he's there and he won't look at you and you expected it but it still stings, makes it real, final. Only two more days, you think, two more days until we'll be home. That shouldn't make you feel worse, but it does. Who needs home anyway? At home you're alone. He's there, but you're alone. Here is better. You should stay here, live in some bubble of unreality, forget about home. You've never dreaded being home this much before. (Not in a long time, at least.)

He throws himself into work, which isn't really different from what he's been doing, but now he's doing it to avoid you and it's really getting to you. You spend most of your time out of your room because he's always in it, but you run out of things to do, you run out of energy, you have to get some sleep, so you have to return. He's apparently decided he doesn't need to sleep at all because you can tell he's still working from the electronic glow that fills the room past 2, past 3, past 4am. 

He's doing it on purpose, you know, so you can wake up and shower and escape while he's still unconscious. At the venue, you wordlessly take turns being absent from the dressing room. On stage, he moves away when you start drifting closer, you do the same when he drifts near to you. He takes the tour bus back, you ride in a car with the staff. If anyone gets suspicious, they keep it to themselves, and you're glad about that at least. 

You have an early flight and your alarm wakes both of you up at the same time. He notices you're not getting up, your eyes open but vacant. "Do you want to shower first?" he asks, and his voice is raspy and low and it's doing all kinds of lovely, horrible, dangerous things to you, so you answer with a simple 'no' and roll away from him, close your eyes and listen to the bathroom door close. 

Fifteen minutes later, the door opens and he finishes packing his things while you lock yourself in the bathroom, shower and shave and calculate exactly how much time until you're supposed to be in the lobby to meet the airport shuttle. You still feel like avoiding him is the best course of action, but he doesn't really seem to agree and it's getting on your nerves. When you come out from the bathroom, your things are already stowed away and your suitcases are lined up at the doors and he's doing it because it's normal but it's pissing you off and you don't know why and you snap. You grab his suitcase and throw it on the bed, unzip it, start emptying his things. "What are you doing?" he squeaks, wrinkling his face in confusion. You stop, spin around to look at him. "See? You don't want me messing around with your things, so keep your grubby hands off mine."

You regret saying it the moment you see his face change at your thoughtless words, but maybe this is the way to do it, to protect him by making him hate you. "I was just trying to help, it's already kind of late." You grab your bags and leave him to clean up your mess. (He's used to it, he must be by now.) 

He walks down to the lobby five minutes later, sits across the room from you and he looks sick and you know he's feeling that way because of you, but maybe if you can erase his feelings for you, then you can actually be normal. You have to try, this is your fault for giving in, it's your responsibility to fix it. You're gonna fix it by destroying yourself in his eyes.

(The plane readies for takeoff and you close your eyes and lean back in your seat and you see his face and you know it's not going to be that easy.)


	3. pt. 3

(Kyungil POV)

...  
You thought things were different before, but you land at the airport it's like a switch has been flipped and you know he was right, you know you can't make this work here, and the past month feels like a wonderful, terrible dream, a painful reminder that the world is cruel and uncaring, you work so hard for a little success, you give up so much for a few seconds of glory, for a few minutes of pride. 

Would anything be different if you had settled for normal? Given up your dreams, gotten a normal job like you were supposed to, like everyone expected of you? If you hadn't pushed the boundaries, sacrificed pieces of yourself for a slice of fame, poured everything you had into a minuscule chance for something more? Would you be able to live for yourself, live for him? Could you give it up now? It doesn't matter, because he can't, and if he ever did, if he ever had to settle because of you, for you, you'd never forgive yourself. If you had settled for normal, you wouldn't have ever met him and you'd probably both be better off because of it. (He'd be better off, at least. You're not so sure anymore.)

You get home and he locks himself up in his studio, or in his room, or leaves to hang out with his friends. You were supposed to be hanging out with your friends too, but you're really not in the mood, you can't talk to them about it, you can't go drinking with them because you'll start talking about it. Instead, you lock yourself in the gym, distract yourself with exercise routines of increasing difficulty, blast music loud enough to drown out your thoughts. (At this rate, you'll go deaf.)

It helps at first, but you have to stop sometimes, you have to see him sometimes, you have to sleep sometimes, and those are the times you think about giving up, giving in, ruining everything again. Why did it have to be him? Someone you work with, someone you're in charge of, someone you absolutely, positively cannot have actual feelings for. (Someone you absolutely, positively do have actual feelings for.) If you had to fall for someone, why couldn't it have been someone else, someone safer, someone that mattered less? Maybe it wouldn't have been fair to them, to subject them to this life, to keep them on the back burner, but anyone would be better than him. (Because, as far as you're concerned, no one is better than him.)

You all go out to celebrate the surprisingly successful leg of your latest tour and you can't look at him, can't enjoy yourself, can't stop thinking about what you could possibly do to fix this, to make it work, but you never come up with any answers, except to find a way to make him hate you, but that could break up the band and he needs this, this is his dream, isn't it? Not you, this lifestyle, the performances, the fame. Not you. (Which hardly seems fair because the only thing you dream of anymore is him.)

You're not drinking because you're scared of the consequences and everyone notices but no one says anything because they know things are weird, even if they haven't figured out the details, even if they don't want to know. He's not as scared as you, you decide, because he's been drinking and playing darts with Jaeho for an hour while you play pool with Dokyun and Sihyoung, but the bar feels stuffy and you can't stop staring at him without realizing it and so you escape out the back, stand on the concrete slab in the alley, wonder when you got this pathetic. 

You're sure he won't follow you, but the door opens less than five minutes later and he's standing there and the only words your brain wants to supply are 'beautiful' and 'I miss you'. You ignore your brain and settle for a simple apology. "Sorry for what?" he asks and you scoff. "It's my fault that we're in this mess." He shakes his head. "It's my fault too. I knew what I was getting into, I knew it'd end up like this."

"So why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me to stop?" He sighs. "I don't know, it was... it was kind of nice while it lasted, wasn't it?" You shrug. "Does that even matter now?" He stops, swallowing hard, avoiding your eyes. "To me, it does," he whispers. "So this is the new normal?" you says, looking down at your feet. "I guess it is." He pauses for a second. "Come back inside, everyone's looking for you." You follow him back inside, sit at the bar, pretend things are okay, pretend you feel like celebrating. He catches your eye from across the room, smiles weakly, tries not to make it harder. (He's trying to help, but you're beyond that now.)

You're the only sober one by the end of the night and you and Dokyun are left to drag the other three back home. You end up taking charge of him because you're always in charge of him and, also, he's drunk and he doesn't want to leave and he's attached himself to you like a leech. It's nothing new but it is somehow, and you feel the gravity of each step up to his room and you're so glad you're still sober but it's not making it as easy as you thought. You want to take care of him, you always take care of him and yet... it feels different, strange and unfamiliar because this is supposed to be over. (Will this ever be over?)

You help him sit down on his bed, but he tries to pull you down too and you're not surprised because this always happens when he's drunk, this has been happening for years, but you've never thought it was anything more than a cute habit, or an obnoxious trait depending on your mood. You let him, let him hold you as you collapse on top of him, let him giggle into your shoulder, let him roll you off of him. You start to sit up, but he grabs your hand. "I know it's... weird now, but don't go," he says, stuttering a little. You lay back down. "Only if you promise to sleep." He nods in agreement, closing his eyes and faking a snore before laughing gleefully. "I love you," he mumbles. "Stop."

"I'm really trying to forget, but I still remember. I want you to say it again," he babbles, playing with your hand and sticking out his bottom lip in a pout. "Stop," you repeat, pleading with him, trying to show him you're serious. "I don't want to stop. I love you." You sit up abruptly, ripping your hand away from his. "I'm sorry," he says automatically, throwing his arms around your middle, burying his face dangerously close to your lap. "I'm sorry," he says, his words muffled inside your shirt, "don't leave."

"Don't... don't apologize for... something like that." You don't want him to feel guilty over his feelings for you, even if it would be easier if he didn't feel them, if he didn't say them and make your heart contract, if you hadn't been the one to say it first, and second, and fourteenth. (Does it still count as an accident after the first ten times?) 

He looks up at you, blinking, and you want him, but you can't have him and you wouldn't want it to be like this anyway, this is the whole reason why you were scared to drink because it can't happen like this and it wouldn't solve anything and it's not going to prove that you won't mess this up again. (You will definitely mess this up again.) "Sleep," you tell him, pushing him out of your lap and onto his pillows. "Don't go," he whispers, desperation in his eyes. "I won't," you lay down next to him, "if you go to sleep." 

He nods, rolling over to lay against your chest, closing his eyes obediently and sighing. He passes out within a minute, his hand in yours, his nose squished in the fabric of your t-shirt. Does he know that this killing you? Because this is killing you and it's overwhelming and this was supposed to be over by now, this was supposed to stop hurting by now, but he's in your arms again and it's terrifying because you feel like that's where he should be, where he belongs. (It's terrifying because your feelings are only getting stronger.)

He looks like a mess when he wakes up the next morning, rubbing his eyes and moaning like he's going to die, and you think you're enjoying this too much. "Come on," you say, grabbing his hand, "Dokyun'll have some soup ready by now." He stumbles out of bed, zipping on a hoodie and placing a beanie on his head only to pull it over his eyes a second later, expecting you to lead him to the kitchen. 

You help him sit at the table, present him with a big bowl of hangover soup, pull the beanie off his head, pat his hair down as he starts to eat. You sit down next to him, elbow resting on the table, watching as he grimaces and tries to swallow, smiling in a way that you know will annoy him if he ever looks up at you. "Did I say anything stupid last night? It's fuzzy," he says, not looking at you. You want to say yes, make up some crazy story, see if he'll believe you, but the memory of what he actually said is still too fresh, too innocent, too real, so you don't. "No, nothing stupid."

"You're lying," he mumbles. "I promise," you reply, pulling his hood up and over his head. He thinks you're doing it to annoy him, but you're really doing it so you don't keep touching his hair. "I don't believe you," he mutters, sounding crankier and cuter than you'd imagined possible. "I guess that's your problem then." He nods in agreement, pushing his bowl away and resting his head on the table. (You think the real problems start when he does believe you.)

You have things to do before the calendar switches over, but you can't bring yourself to do any of them. You should be enjoying your time off, but you're kind of miserable and you don't know what to do about it. Your days blur together in a haze of watching movies and working out. 

The next thing you know it's 11:57pm on New Year's Eve and you were supposed to go out and party and pass out on the floor of your friend's apartment, but that's the last thing you want to do right now, so you cancel, pretend you're feeling sick, and you're not really pretending anyway. You think he might have gone out with his friends again, but you decide to check his studio anyway. 

You try the door and it's locked, but you have the key and you don't care if you're overstepping, you unlock the door and walk in. He turns around, looks at you, shouldn't he be surprised? He doesn't say a word, waits for you to speak, explain yourself. You turn on your phone to show him the time, 11:59pm. "New Year's," you stutter, "I want... you, no, I mean... I miss... I... it's New Year's Eve." He glances at your phone. "New Year's Day, actually."

"Oh," you mutter, looking at your phone and returning it to your pocket and he starts to spin back around in his chair. "It doesn't have to stop," you blurt out. He blinks, unmoving. "When we're here, it stops. It doesn't have to stop if we're not." You plead with your eyes, hoping he won't disagree this time. "That's what you want?" You nod, too eager. "What about you?" you ask, but you already did know the answer. He wants you, he's just wanted you for a long time, if you want him, even a little, he'll let it happen, even if it's not right for him, even if it destroys him, even if you change your mind. (You'll never say it, but you feel the same way.)

He doesn't answer your question so you try another. "What now?" He shrugs. "Well, we are here so... nothing, I guess." You nod, reaching behind you to lock the door. "What about now?" He doesn't answer, lets you cross the room to where he stands, lets you touch his face, lets you kiss him for the first time in days and it's everything and it's important and even though you don't know what it all means, where you should go from here, it doesn't matter because he kisses you back and he puts his arms around your neck and he sighs your name like it's a prayer, and it's enough. It's enough for now. (It might be enough for always.)

You count the days until you leave again, until you can go back to pretending this is possible, that it could work, that it won't end in disaster. 17 days until you can kiss him again, 10 days until you can hold him in your arms, 3 days until you can wake up together. 

It's less painful now, knowing you're only on pause is so much better than pressing stop, less final, less wrong. He smiles at you over breakfast and you watch movies with him on the couch and it feels normal again, normal enough. You know you should have set more boundaries, given him some rules, some idea of what to expect, but this is working for you and he's looking at you and smiling again and you don't feel like you're dying, so it's good enough. (Even if it's not good for you.)

You board your plane and your heart is racing and you don't know if he's ready for this yet so you wait for him to make the first move and you think you might end up waiting forever, but he reaches for your hand during takeoff and he doesn't let go even when you level off and he rests his head on your shoulder even though it's a short flight.

If anyone notices, they don't say anything and you're grateful because this is what you need and it's important and it's everything, and you won't give it up as easily next time, you won't let him go as easily next time. You'll take it slow, slower than before, and you'll appreciate it, because you'll have to pause it again in a matter of weeks, and you'll hold his hands, because you almost forgot how they fit into yours, and you'll kiss him more, because you're still not tired of the way he tastes, and you'll do everything you should have been doing all along, because he deserves that, he deserves your full attention, he deserves to know that he's important, that he matters, that you're not giving up this time. You'll prove it, you'll show him, you'll make sure he knows it.

(He's still holding your hand when the plane lands and he holds your waist to steady himself as he reaches into the overhead compartment and his smile could power a city and you wonder if he already does.)


	4. bonus: pre-prequel

(Kyungil POV)

...  
Things have been escalating for a few months now, but if you needed any more proof, this is it. Maybe he's getting bolder or maybe you're getting less scary, maybe you're just getting tired, but whatever the reason, what happened today was another step up and you don't have a lot of steps left on the road to disaster, so you're gonna have to do something about this now, before it's too late. 

He's acting sheepish around you when you get back to the hotel that night and you know he's feeling it too, he knows this is getting out of hand and he's giving you a little more space than he has been the last few weeks. (Months, actually.) You're a little concerned that he might think you're upset with him, but you're not, you know that's just how these things go, the fans get what they want and you have to deal with the aftermath.

You thought he was going to kiss you, for real, in front of all those people. You're not sure why, but he startled you and all you could do was try to laugh it off. You've never talked about this, this unspoken bond between you. Don't all bands do this? Tease the fans by getting up close and personal with their bandmates? It's the job, it's not real, everybody knows it and yet you're not so sure. He pushes the boundaries a little more than some, perhaps, but you don't really have any proof that it's more than a way to mess with your head, that it's more than a childish prank, a determination to figure out how far you'll let things go before you back away. (You're letting it go further than you used to.)

It sure makes things awkward, whatever the motivation, and you still haven't quite figured out how to change that, how to remember that what happens on stage stays on stage and leave it at that. It certainly does not continue to happen when you're back in your hotel room away from the fans. It never has before, at least, but today just felt... different. 

"You want to go to the gym?" you ask him and he looks up from his laptop. "You're not tired?" Tired of thinking about today, you think. "Not yet," you reply. He shuts his laptop and gets out of bed, grabbing a water bottle for you and two for himself out of the fridge. 

 _This will help,_ you tell yourself. Getting all sweaty and endorphin-high around him is not the worst idea you've ever had. (It's up there, though.) He does push-ups on the floor while you wear out the treadmill, but you're still distracted and while you were thinking about the him that snuggled into your neck at the fanmeet, now you're thinking about the him that doing push-ups six feet away from you and you decide this is only making it worse. He's hasn't been working out regularly nearly as long as you have and he's so freaking noisy when he's exercising and it's throwing you off completely. So completely that you trip on the treadmill, steady yourself on the handles and turn down the speed.  _Idiot,_ you think. 

He looks up at you, smiling and sitting up on his knees. "I thought you weren't tired," he teases. "I'm not, you're just so bad at this I can't focus on what I'm doing," you retort. He frowns, pouting. "I'm trying. You make it look so easy, but it's not like that for us mere mortals." You laugh. "Cute," you say in your head, or at least you thought it was in your head until he starts to turn red and stands up from his exercise mat. "We can't all be sexy body builders," he mutters. 

All stop. Danger. Blaring alarms. Police sirens. Control yourself. The fact that you're sexy is just that, a fact, it's not his opinion and even if it is, it doesn't matter to you, nope, not a bit. "I was teasing, you're doing a lot better," you commend him, berating yourself in your head as you do. "Don't lie." He crosses his arms. "I'm not," you insist.  _Stop it,_ you think to yourself,  _this is not helping anything._ "It's all thanks to you," he says softly and your heart feels... weird. It's probably just the shock of almost falling on your face wearing off. (Totally.)

"Maybe I should retire and become a personal trainer," you suggest. "And leave me to deal with Jaeho all by myself? No way," he whines, crinkling up his nose.  _Cute,_ you think, actually in your head this time. "Well, I guess that settles it." He smiles, handing you a towel. You dry your face with it and hang it over the treadmill.

You eye the weights across the room, but if he distracts you while you're lifting them it could be way worse than tripping on the treadmill so you elect floor exercises instead. He sits next to the treadmill and his eyes are glued to you and it's making you self-conscious and it's ridiculous because he's been hanging out watching you in the gym for years, and nothing's changed so why does it feel so... weird?

"You done already?" you ask him between sit-ups. "I'm tired, I'm supposed to be working," he says. "Then go back to the room," you tell him. "I'll fall asleep if you're not there." 

"Am I that loud? Are you trying to tell me I snore?" you ask, still trying to shift back into your normal dynamics. "No, I just... I know I'll fall asleep." You nod, take a break from exercising. "Fine, if you're gonna beg, I'll quit early today."

"I wasn't asking you to," he stutters, but you wave him off. "No, no, I'm the leader, I'll sacrifice my abs for you," you say, standing up and grabbing your water bottle. "I have to shower anyway and it's later than I thought. Let's go." He tries to stop you again but you ignore him, walk back to your room, offer to let him shower first, but he says he'll work instead. 

You're taking a cold shower because you're hot from working out, not for any other reason. Deny, deny, deny, it's something you've been doing for longer than you realize. Maybe he has a crush or maybe you're just fun to tease, but it doesn't matter to you because you don't, you don't have any feelings toward him except completely appropriate feelings of pride as the leader, the same feelings you have for everyone in your band. Okay, not exactly the same, but close enough. (Not close at all.)

 _What is happening to me?_ , you wonder as you turn off the faucet, dry off with a towel, dress in just your boxers. You can tease just as well as he can, you'll prove it, there's nothing you can't do better than him. He looks up from his laptop at you, coughs once, returns to his work. Not the reaction you were hoping for. (You don't even know what you were hoping for.) 

You start to do stretches in front of his bed and he looks up again. "What are you doing?" he asks. "Have I taught you nothing? Stretching after a run is just as important as stretching before it." He stares at you for moment before nodding. "Sure," he agrees before going back to work. You sigh internally, there was a time when this would have gotten to him, maybe he really is just teasing, maybe it's just a gimmick for the fans. (Why is that so disappointing?)

You flop on your bed, roll over into your stomach, sigh externally. "I can turn off the lights. That'll help," he suggests. You sit up, point at him. "Ah! So this is getting to you!" you say. He furrows his brow. "It'll help you sleep. I'll try to type quietly and turn down the brightness." Your shoulders deflate. "Oh. Right. I can do it." You stand up, flip the switches by the door, stumble back to your bed. 

"Is everything okay?" he says. "Of course, why wouldn't it be okay?" You get under the covers, roll away from him. "Are you upset about what happened earlier?" he asks tentatively. "It was for the fans, why would that upset me? You know this is just the job." 

"For you, maybe," he mumbles, but you catch it. "Not for you?" This is a terrible idea. He doesn't respond, because he's unbelievably smarter than you right now. It doesn't make you any less stupid, though, because you say it again. "It's not just the job for you?" He closes his laptop, closes his eyes. "Don't make me say it," he whispers. You think that might be an answer for your question, it might explain his motivation, but you're not sure. "What are you gonna do about it then?" 

"Nothing, you don't have to worry," he says, his voice louder and more confident. "I wasn't, I wasn't worried." He sighs. "Yeah, you were, but it's not a big deal. I'll stop if you want." You wave him off, realize he can't see in the dark. "If it's for the fans, we'll do it. Anything for the fans, right?"

"Sure," he agrees half heartedly. "That settles it then." You roll over again, trying to make out his expression through the darkness. He doesn't respond, rolling away from you. Maybe you should have gone for a longer run because you can't sleep, you have to sleep so you can work.

 "What if it's not for the fans?" he mumbles in his pillow, probably hoping you can't hear him. "Whatever happens on stage is for the fans," you state. "What about what happens off stage?" Nothing happens off stage. He works and you sleep and that's it. 

Sometimes you get him coffee after your morning workout and sometimes he wakes you up sort of accidentally so you can listen to some song he's been working on, but that's it. 

Sometimes you watch movies together, but just because he never takes any breaks and it's your job to make sure no one gets too overwhelmed or weighed down by this life. Sometimes he doesn't make it through the whole movie and he falls asleep next to you and you let him stay there, only because he's heavier than he looks and it's a pain to carry him to his bed and you don't wake him up because you're never sure when the last time he actually slept was, but that's it.

Sometimes you wake up and realize he's tangled his legs with yours at some point during the night, that your arm is resting around his waist, but that's not something you can control, it's subconscious. Sometimes he looks at you after he wakes up and his eyelids are heavy and his cheeks are swollen and his hair is a mess and there's sleep in his eyes and you don't think he looks totally awful, but that's it. 

Sometimes you get drunk with your band after a long week, a long month, a long year, and he sits a little closer than necessary and you look at him a little longer than necessary. Sometimes you stumble home with his arms around your waist and his head against your chest and you drag him to his bed. Sometimes you can't make it to your own room and you pass out next to him, a little closer than necessary, but that's it. 

Sometimes you grab his hand off-camera as a reflex and sometimes you catch yourself looking at parts of him that aren't his eyes and sometimes you stare at him in his sleep and sometimes you pull him closer to you before he wakes up, but...

Shit.

"What about it?" you say finally, hoping he'll let it go. "That should probably stop, right? Because it can't be for the fans if they're not watching." You nod. "Right, that should stop." You feel like you should say something else, but he's just accepting it, so you let it go. 

You're not sure when you finally fall asleep, but you wake up about the same time as he does, making eye contact almost immediately, feeling like it's impossible to break it. You look away first, after far too many seconds, because it's starting to feel weird again and you're awake enough to start remembering that this is a bad idea. 

"About last night..." he begins, and you should let him finish, but you're not sure where he's going with this, so you interrupt. "When we're onstage, anything goes. Within reason. When we're not onstage... nothing that could be considered fan service." (Because you want it to be real.)

He nods in agreement, lets you have the bathroom first to get ready, leaves you alone with your thoughts. Last night definitely felt different, your heart still doesn't feel normal, your brain keeps trying to explain it away, all you know is that you have to stop this now, before you get any deeper, before it gets any weirder, any more real. 

(He flashes you a sleepy smile on the way to the bathroom and his pajama pants are hanging low on his hips and his hair is all tangled and sticking up and you think it might be too late.)


End file.
